


All  Things Truly Wicked

by azryal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dark, Darkity-dark-dark, Don't Judge, M/M, Ragnar is evil, so am I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Vikings Kink Meme @ vikingskink on LJ. </p><p>Hi! Not anonymous anymore. </p><p>The very first prompt. It called to me, precious.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Trigger Warnings: Rape/Non-Con/Dub-Con, religious themes.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Ragnar takes Athelstan as a slave.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>But first Ragnar takes him right there on the altar of the ravaged church in front of everyone, and God help him, Athelstan loves every second of it.</i></p><p> </p><p>I couldn't quite reconcile the last part - about Athelstan loving every second - with how a Ragnar who would do this sort of thing would go about it, so it's pretty dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All  Things Truly Wicked

It had been the eyes first.

When Ragnar threw him down, those eyes had turned up to his. He saw fear, and fire.

Then the voice, calling out in his own tongue. It quieted the hum of violence in his chest. His questions were answered tremulously, but clearly, for the fear and the fire ran through this one’s veins. The man… _hmph_ , the _boy_ had begged, but had looked into his face to do it. Ragnar had the knife beneath his chin and yet the boy’s eyes were wide and alert, darting between Erik and he like a bird’s. Glancing down at the thing he held so close to his chest, Ragnar noticed the trim fit of the belt at his waist and the long line of his legs beneath the ugly robe. He resisted a grin but could not stop the twitch of his lips.

This one…was interesting.

The book was mysterious and Ragnar didn’t understand. So much here worth so much more and this flat, delicate object was clutched to the other’s chest like a shield. It made no sense. The answer as to why helped not, but when Ragnar had him close, pressed between their tall table and his torso, he decided he didn’t care. Fear did not douse the boy’s fire, nor did trembling lessen the reaction he felt against his thigh.

Ragnar would keep this one.

Rollo’s entrance could not have been better timed. His brother acted as always; angry for never being first, spiteful when thwarted in his wants. Ragnar was often disappointed in his brother’s lack of vision, but this time, it was to his advantage. He let Rollo snarl, let him destroy the boy’s god-image, even let him lay hands and leave bruises. All the better to let the boy see what _could_ happen, if Ragnar let it. He waited for the knowledge to simmer over that fire, until the fear began to boil.

He sent Leif and Erik out to finish the job and turned to his pretty, caged bird.

The boy’s eyes were wet but not his face. He kept to his feet even though his body shook. These things were good, for they showed the strength at his core. When Ragnar got close again, close enough to feel the coarse cloth scratch through his own wool, the boy squeaked but said nothing. Ragnar lifted his hand, still holding the dagger, and let his fingertips run lazily over the raven-wing arches above the other’s eyes, down the sharp line of his nose. The skin of his cheek was especially fine, even where the dark smudge of hair began.

The other’s trembling lips were pink and soft, like a child’s, and they parted under the pressure of his fingers. Hot puffs of air caressed his hand and it stirred his loins. He shifted, partly to steady his stance for the struggle to come and partly to let the boy feel what thickened against him. Those bird’s eyes blinked rapidly and he started to speak, but Ragnar slipped a finger into his mouth and hooked it behind his teeth.

“I will not let them kill you,” he told the boy. He moved his finger, tracing the line of gum and the soft underside of tongue. “And I won’t hurt you, so long as you obey me.”

The boy’s breathing was hitching, coming too fast. If he’d had more time, he would have enjoyed playing with this one until he was overcome and fell to the floor. He gave it thought while he pushed two fingers into the other’s mouth, as far as they would go.

“Do you understand?” Ragnar asked, softly.

The boy blinked. Then he nodded.

Ragnar smiled and removed his fingers. Before the other could move, Ragnar took his chin and then his mouth. He hummed a little as his tongue roamed, satisfaction warming his blood even further. The boy was still and silent, and through slitted eyes Ragnar could see he was looking up at the roof, as if seeking help. It would be better if he knew now that no help was coming.

His other hand reached down to cup between the boy’s legs. This made him jump, caused his eyes to squeeze shut. Ragnar tightened his grip and the struggle began. The boy put a palm to Ragnar’s chest and pushed, turning his head, fighting the hold on his face.

“Remember, obey me, or I call them back.”

There was a whimper and a sharp inhale. “Please,” the boy whispered.

It took a moment for Ragnar to figure out the knot at his belt, but he found the proper way and with one tug it fell to the floor. Taking the book from him, Ragnar said, “Remove that ugly thing.”

Oh, he was sweet, blushing and fumbling, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. The robe came up over his head, tangled with his smock. The skin revealed was white, unblemished, giving the fine, young form a delicate look. Ragnar swept a hand down the boy’s chest, feeling firm muscle at the top that tapered down to a soft, flat stomach. Lower still was a nest of black, curling hair and his fingers scratched through it before he took the boy’s cock.

Though he bit his lip, clenched his fists hard at his sides, Ragnar easily brought him to full hardness. As he pulled, he leaned in to nip the other’s neck. The sounds were small, but Ragnar heard the tiny whimpers the other made with each breath. The arousal that burned through him at those noises was staggering, and Ragnar put a hand on table to lean against it.

His teeth left lovely red marks on that pale throat.

Ragnar took the boy by his shoulders and turned him. One hand pressed his head to lay on the tabletop, the other swept down his back. When fingers trailed through the downy dark hairs of his ass, the boy tried to push up, shouting in his own language. Ragnar let him fight, let him cry, holding him firmly at the back of his neck and pressing one knee up between his thighs. It took a few moments, and Ragnar grinned through them until the struggle ended.

The boy was sobbing now, but it was breathy, quiet sounds and not the ugly croaks he would expect. Ragnar put two of his fingers into his mouth to wet them, and returned to the shadowed crevice that held such promise. He kept to slow movements, letting the boy feel the touch as he circled his pucker. There was one, high-pitched wail when Ragnar breached him, but the boy pressed is face into the table and fought to keep silent after that.

Ragnar stretched and tugged, pulling him open. Pressing deeper, he sought and found the nub, rubbed over it in circles. The boy’s hips lurched forward and he grunted, groaning into the cloth beneath him. Ragnar kept his attention there until there were moans, mixed with of pleading words, both foreign and familiar. Ragnar withdrew to unlace his leggings, spit into his palm, and wet the head of his cock.

The push through made the boy jerk hard enough to unseat Ragnar and with a snarl he shoved back in, making sure to be up to his balls before stopping. The boy was screaming, crying, pushing at his hips and begging so wretchedly that Ragnar actually felt a swell of pity. He released the hold on the other’s neck and leaned over him, wrapping that hand around his small and shrunken cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he whispered. “Breathe, boy. Breathe.”

He dropped kisses on shoulders, traced designs with his tongue, lapped at an earlobe. All the while he pulled and squeezed the cock he held, working it stiff once more. He felt the muscles beneath him and around him ease the smallest bit. The boy was reciting something in his odd language, eyes closed and dripping tears, his fingers tangled in the white cloth of the table cover. Ragnar thought he was beautiful, and told him so.

Then he began to move. Each thrust sent the boy’s pitch higher, each withdraw dragged out a sob. Ragnar found the tightness and burn exquisite and, even better, was the response against his palm. Ragnar groaned into his back. It was sweet to feel the first real pleasure move through him. The boy went silent with a gasp, and his hips canted back to greet the next thrust. Ragnar’s hand and cock were delivering him to fleshly joy without his will. Tugging hard on the curls at the back of his head, Ragnar positioned him with his back arched and chest out. It put the brunt of his plunge, the hammer of his drive right onto the secret spot, and Ragnar made certain to plow the narrow channel with that in mind.

The moment came when the boy could no longer pretend to fight. He was swept up by sensation, slack jawed, head thrown back. Ragnar put a hand on his throat and pounded with all of his strength, jarring the table in his enthusiasm. His fingers tightened, cutting off sound and air, and a moment later the boy’s cock shot come over his hand, the cloth and table before him, even the heaving chest above. Ragnar let him fall back down and rode through the clench, seeding him, filling his ass to overflowing. He fell on top of the other and bit down, startling another convulsion, another squeeze on his cock.

Ragnar took a deep breath, tongued at the indents his teeth left, and listened to the boy weep. He stood straight and pulled out to dress himself. The boy fell to the floor. He curled into a tight roll, his sobs of pain and shame stifled behind his hands. They _were_ pitiful, just shy of rousing Ragnar’s guilt. His eyes fell on the long, lean muscle of the other’s thighs, now stained with his come and traces of blood, and all Ragnar felt was keen satisfaction.

Smiling, Ragnar crouched down beside him. He put his palm on the bare spot at the top of boy’s head, so smooth and vulnerable, naked even when they covered everything else. He would not let him shave it again.

“Ah, priest, you were made to fuck. I’m glad I found you first,” Ragnar said, sweet and soft as if he wooed a maiden. He heard the poor thing retch and thought, perhaps, some reparative measures were necessary.

Sitting against the table, careful not to lean back on the drying stains left from the boy’s climax, Ragnar pulled him close. Into his lap to stroke and soothe until he calmed. “You did very well. You even came for me, which pleases me,” Ragnar whispered, close to the boy’s ear. “What is this you’ve painted? What is this place?”

“S-s-sanct-uary,” he stammered through hiccoughing breaths. When Ragnar made a face, he hurriedly amended, “T-t-t….temple.”

“And this?” Ragnar knocked on the table.

The boy’s lips quivered. “The alt…the altar.”

Ragnar began to laugh. He roared with it, hugged the boy and kissed him soundly. “So! You have been a sacrifice! That should please your god, and mine.” When the tears began to flow again, Ragnar grabbed his face, looked into the glazed and watery eyes. “There is no doubt it pleased me.”

He let the boy cry a bit more. Then Ragnar wiped away the tears, helped him dress, and bound his wrists before him with hemp. By this time, he was in a daze. His eyes were unfocused, not lifting to see beyond the floor. His breathing came in sharp inhales as if he were forgetting it was necessary. The shaking had settled into a fine tremor that was obvious in his hands. Still, when Ragnar tilted his chin up, the glassy stare sharpened enough for him. The boy knew his master now.

“Remember, obey me and nothing will happen to you,” Ragnar said.

The boy nodded.

Ragnar kissed him again, and led him towards the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This was also an exercise in writing without a name. Subtilior did it for Nine Eleven Ten in the XMFC fandom, so I thought, yeah...hell, yeah I can do that.
> 
> I bow to her superior writing skills. She did it for _chapters_. I could barely manage four pages. 
> 
> *bows*


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